


Dreams and Regrets

by buttercups3



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Breast Sex, F/M, Ficlet, Hand Job, Rachel & Bass eye contest, Rachel rage at Bass, all the watching Mayhem cuddle in the desert around Bass did this to me, mild spoilers for 2.10/11, set during the journey to Mexico before picking up Connor, subtle Bass voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 01:50:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttercups3/pseuds/buttercups3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unwilling to submit to the hold Bass still has over her, Rachel commands the thing she <em>can</em> control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreams and Regrets

**Author's Note:**

> This is short, but it had to come out like snake venom. Rachel and Bass felt like having another silent fight over Miles. It's this week's theme apparently. RM2 are torture. I ship it so hard. Rachel POV, and it's a harsh one, so prepare yourself.

The yawning light against Rachel’s loose eyelids informs her that it’s early. For its sparse vegetation and accommodation of only the stoutest (often venomous) wildlife, the desert is profoundly quiet. The sizzling arms of the man she loves may be draped all over her, but it’s _Bass’_ still form upon which she opens her eyes across the ashen pit of last night’s fire. He appears to be slumbering but not peaceful. His lips are pinched in a sort of anguish that stirs in her, _what exactly?_ – catharsis, sympathy, empathy, all of the above? Even unconscious, Bass has the power to mind-fuck her.

Rachel and Miles’ pants and shirts are airing out behind them on the sandy earth so that when she nuzzles back into her companion, she encounters a wall of wind-chapped, hair-lined skin and erection beneath frayed cotton shorts. It’s just morning wood; Miles is asleep even if his dick is not. But suddenly she can’t shake the impulse to touch it, to feel Miles submit to her hand. Miles comes almost soundlessly anyway – or at least he used to – and though she’s not quite ready to admit it, the thought of Miles emptying himself for her just feet away from Bass is precisely the thrill. What Bass wants is _hers_.

She rolls over to face Miles' whiskeyed grunt and is received against his muscled chest. He doesn’t need to be awake to want her. Jesus, he sleeps hot – he’s sweating under their thin wool covers though the desert is icebox cold. It’s presumptuous waking him up this way – she could be taking too much liberty with his feelings for her – but she does it anyway, pushing down his shorts to free his cock. Then, pouring spit into her palms, she explores every millimeter of his silken hardness. Just as he starts to moan, she shoves a wet hand against his coarse lips and bids him, “Shh.” 

An electrified, clear brown eye regards her from beneath an arched brow. _Welcome to the morning exhibition, Miles._

It’s too late to ask permission, but rather, she wants to hear him acquiesce. “Can I?”

He does her one better than answering; he reaches around her back to unclamp her bra and slides his penis slowly up her ribs to the crease beneath her left breast. _Damn_. She’d forgotten how much he loves thrusting into her bossom. The angle’s now supremely awkward for her wrists, but that’s not what he wants anyway. He’s fucking hard into every contour he can find, grazing her nipple, bludgeoning the soft tissue with what feels like a blunt dagger. She pushes together her breasts to clamp him tighter. He’s wanton, lustful, violent. _(He’s Miles.)_ It might seem a little impersonal – his eyes are shut and his head is down – but _goddamn_ does she have command of her sex and her man. Bass can fuck her brain but not her breasts. Bass doesn’t know how much Miles needs this from her. If he did, he’d take this too.

All things told, it’s quick; Miles is coming now – warm seed spilling over her breasts and hands that have been twisted and forgotten in the fray. It’ll turn sticky and icy in a moment with no reasonable way to wipe off. But before she can regret the unfortunate aftermath of fucking a man, Miles barrels into her neck and sucks, hugging her desperately, like he can’t figure out how to thank her enough for what he didn’t know he needed. Of course, he wouldn’t realize that it’s what she needed too. That’s the thing about men. They can’t fathom that sometimes it’s your mind that orgasms, not your sex. Giving is claiming. But dicks are selfish; they can only think of their own release.

Rachel kisses his damp hair, then cranes her neck to gaze over at Bass again (whom Miles has no doubt forgotten, if he considered their audience at all). Bass is leaning on his elbows, his azure irises more awake than the sky. Rachel lets herself enjoy the sensation of her skin slipping in the ocean of ejaculate between her and Miles, because Bass can’t feel; he can only watch. He might be holding his own throbbing dick, unable to finish. That thought makes her smile. And so she does – right at him. Something flashes across his eyes, as he turns away. She thinks, _That’s right, you monstrous piece of shit. All you have are dreams and regrets._


End file.
